Daphne Mayne and the Hounds of Magic: Chronicles of Wydoria, #2

By Kent Silverhill

Just when Daphne thought she could forget about magic, that it had nothing more to do with her, an elf crashes into her life and turns her world upside down.
The elf - a girl Daphne's age - needs the power of the Wightstone to save her people.
Reluctantly, Daphne agrees to help, but their journey quickly becomes treacherous. Pursued by the Consistorium's Hounds of Magic, the two girls face danger at every turn.
To make matters worse, the Wightstone loses its power, Daphne's magic disappears, and she falls ill with a mysterious sickness. The pair rely on their courage and wits to survive as Daphne's condition worsens, and the hounds of magic draw closer.
Now, the fate of the world rests on the shoulders of an elf whose strength and intelligence are all that stand in the way of the forces of evil. Will she save both Daphne and her people, or will darkness triumph?

 

You will love this book if you like the Song of the Lioness, or The Immortals quartets by Tamora Pierce, or His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman.

 

Contains mild violence, threats and references to death

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mirke Books
• Release date: Mar 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9780995607088

Kent Silverhill

Kent Silverhill was born in 1960 in Bristol, UK and emigrated to South Africa when he was seven. The remainder of his childhood was spent growing up in and around Johannesburg. He returned to the UK in 1985 and worked as a manufacturing engineer for a few years before moving into IT and, finally, full-time writer. He is also a cartoonist and the author of the Hollow series of which the first three books "Flight of the Gazebo", "Dangerous Ideals" and "A Taste of Steel" are currently available, as well as a prequel "The Persistence of Poison". More info can be found at worldofhollow.net. In his spare time, Kent enjoys walking and reading (although not at the same time). If you encounter a bewildered looking, middle-aged man trudging across muddy fields in the pouring rain, the trees thrashing in the howling wind, it will probably be Kent who forgot to look at the weather report. He also has two cats but they do not share his view of who's in charge.

Book preview

Prologue

DEEP UNDER HER castle, in the candlelit room without doors, Kapryall breathed in deeply through her nose and lifted her chin. A vein throbbed in her slender neck.

Despite the magic which kept the Consistorium from aging, she was convinced she had new wrinkles around her eyes and more gray in her cropped hair. The way the current meeting was going certainly wasn’t helping.

Stay calm.

They were facing the greatest crisis of their rule, but some of the Five were not taking matters seriously.

She glared across the five-sided table at Munklef, dressed, as he always was, in a dirt-brown robe. This isn’t a joke. If we don’t repair the Map, we will lose control. Scanning the country the way I’m doing since we lost the Map is inefficient and I could easily miss a Flare. I may have already done so! Our very existence is threatened and all you do is make stupid comments.

They’re not stupid, said Munklef. His eyes flashed. What I pointed out was that it’s our own fault there isn’t a glassblower in Wydoria skilled in magic to remake the bells. We’ve been suppressing magic in Wydoria for generations, so it should not come as a surprise.

You’re getting soft, Munklef, said Tussolf. He rubbed a hand over his thick black beard.

What’s that supposed to mean?

In the old days, you’d be the first to get angry. The good life you’ve been living for the last two centuries has turned you fat and lazy.

I’m not lazy!

Oh really? Kapryall keeps watch for anyone in the country who uses magic - which is a great deal more difficult for her since the Map was destroyed. I provide people to maintain the security of the Hedge and guard us from internal danger. Liquaire supervises the protection our ports and coasts, preventing anyone entering Wydoria from the sea. Jarelle controls the weather, making sure our farmers get enough rain. Tussolf fixed Munklef with a stare. His hard, black eyes matched the charcoal of his cloak. Remind me… What is it you do, again?

Munklef’s mouth dropped open. You know very well what I do! The clerks and officials of government don’t manage themselves!

Tussolf snorted. I think you do a lot less than you say.

Liquaire stared at Munklef in distaste. I agree.

That’s enough! snapped Kapryall.

Jarelle nodded, sending waves through her long silver hair. Fighting amongst ourselves won’t solve anything. I know we’re all unsettled by the destruction of the Map, and even more by the goblin Folding into our meeting chamber, but we have to work together.

All eyes around the table swiveled to the blackened, melted stone of the floor where the goblin, Brak, had lain.

Kapryall shuddered. The only way in and out of the chamber without doors was by Folding and, as disturbing as it was, they had been forced to conclude that Brak had learned to Fold. The goblin had muttered something about a human girl… had that been who had taught her how to Fold?

It seems unlikely. The only humans in the entire world who know how to Fold are in this room at this very moment.

But who then?

The goblin had died minutes after arriving and, seeing as they couldn’t remove her body, Munklef had caused the rock under Brak to melt, which had burned her remains to ashes.

Tussolf cleared his throat, breaking the silence and turning the attention of the other four leaders of the Consistorium to him.

I have a suggestion. If we cannot remake the bells here in Wydoria, we must look to have them made outside our borders.

Impossible! shouted Munklef. He banged his fist on the table. Are you suggesting we expose our weakness to the world?

Not at all. I will ensure our business is conducted discreetly.

Go on, said Kapryall. You have my attention. How will you do that?

Tussolf stroked his beard. The elves of Luillan are skilled in glasswork. I will send an agent there to find a suitable artisan.

It’s too dangerous, said Jarelle. The elves aren’t stupid. They won’t have anything to do with someone from Wydoria.

They won’t know my agent is from Wydoria. Tussolf put his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. He will look and act exactly like an elf.

One of the foul creatures created by your twisted magic? said Munklef. Is that what you propose? That we rely on one of your abominations?

As I have said to you before, they are my servants, not abominations. If you have a better idea for replacing the lost bells, let’s hear it.

Munklef grimaced but said nothing.

I thought so. Tussolf’s lips pulled into a smile. He stood and the air around him rippled as he Folded and vanished.

Tussolf looked up from the documents on the desk in front of him and stared at the person who had just entered his study.

Come. Step closer. Tussolf stood and moved around to the front of his desk. From a stand he took up a candelabra, flicked his fingers and the wicks of its nine candles burst into flame, pushing the shadows a little further away. He held the light high and examined at his visitor. Ah, you really are my most perfect creation. Your resemblance to an elf is superb. The ears, the eyes, the fine facial features, the flawless skin, the hair… perfect. What name have you chosen for yourself?

Rassalick, master.

A strong name well suited to your new assignment.

I am eager to begin, master.

Not so eager that you’ve rushed your learning?

No master. I have applied myself to my lessons with every fiber of my being. I am confident I can pass as a real elf, master.

Excellent. Tussolf picked up a package from his desk. Here is a letter of introduction and other documents. When you reach Luillan, you will present yourself to King Crionne. The documents will support your claim to be a scholar from the isle of Arborann, and a distant cousin of the king. You will ask the king’s permission to make use of the palace’s library to further your studies of elvish lore. There will be no reason for the king to deny your request. It is customary for elvish scholars to travel far seeking knowledge.

Rassalick nodded and took the package. Very good, master.

Be aware that my fellow members of the Consistorium believe you are on a mission to find a skilled glassworker, but your real task is to be my eyes and ears amongst the elves, because a month after you arrive in Luillan, the city will appear to be threatened by an army of ogres.

Appear to be? What-

I say ‘appear to be’ because there will really only be a small number of ogres, but I will make it so they will look like thousands. All you need to know is that they are there to make the elves do what I want them to.

I’m not sure I understand.

You’re wondering why I would go to all that effort. It’s because the elves have recently discovered the whereabouts of an item of exceptional power that all thought was lost forever. Now, the one area of magic they are more skilled at than I am is in locating magical items, and since I have not been able to pinpoint the item myself, the illusion of an army of ogres outside their city will force them to mount an expedition to fetch it so they can use it to defend themselves from the ogres. You will find out when the expedition is due to leave and report that to me.

What is this item, master? I ask only so that I will know to pay special attention if I hear talk of it.

It is called the Wightstone. You will not reveal to the elves anything I have told you here. Is that clear?

Yes, master.

Tussolf’s gaze bored into Rassalick’s eyes. You will doubtless by allocated quarters in the palace. You will go about the business of your fake studies and make some effort to find a glassworker. The most important thing, though, is to establish friendships with as many elves of high station as you can so that you are ready when Luillan finds itself under siege.

Yes, master. How will we communicate, master?

Tussolf’s lips pulled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Your body contains several spells that were put into it during your creation. One of those will enable us to talk whenever I wish.

I see… How do I cast the spell of conversation, master?

You don’t. I do. Do you think I want you interrupting me every minute of the day? Who do you think you are?

Rassalick dropped his gaze to the floor. I’m sorry, master. I didn’t think.

Make sure you think harder in future. Now go. When l next speak to you, I expect you to be firmly established in Luillan.

Rassalick bowed and left the room.

CHAPTER ONE

THERE WERE DARK green spikes on both sides of the track. Taller than a person, they arched towards her, threatening to stab her if she strayed too close.

No!

She twisted her neck and peered behind. Two hazy human-shaped figures loped through the knee-high mist covering the track, sniffing the air and drawing nearer with every second.

Her pulse pounded, and her breath sawed in her throat.

On both sides, the fences of spikes were thickening. More and more of them were joining the ones already at the path’s edges, waving like seaweed in the waves of terror rolling from the mist.

The only way was forward along a path between hedges of spikes. If she looked at them, they reared and rattled, covered in spots that might have been blood.

In front of her, far ahead at the end of the path, was the Wightstone.

It was bigger than a house and hovered an arm’s length above the ground, the glowing spiral on its face rotating like a whirlpool.

The closer she got, the more fearful she became.

That afternoon, walking home after school through the field at the side of the village, Marta suddenly stopped, stood in front of Daphne, and gave her the kind of look that said she meant business.

Are you sure you’re all right? she said.

Daphne grimaced and looked away.

Yes. I’m fine.

You’ve been acting weird lately, you know, ever since you came back.

Daphne didn’t respond. Her fingers strayed to where the Wightstone’s cord would be if it hung from her neck. Guiltily, she dropped her hand and smoothed the front of her dress with her palm while she looked around the field. Her gaze lingered on the backs of the houses, their thatched roofs tinted with orange by the late afternoon sun, lining Feybridge’s main street, then flicked to the Hedge.

Marta breathed out through her mouth in a way that sounded impatient as far as Daphne was concerned. I mean… distant. You always seem to be thinking about something else when I talk to you. She took Daphne’s hand in her own. I know you had a tough time, and there’s stuff you haven’t told me, like how you got through the Hedge… But more important than that, you haven’t said much about the goblins, or how they treated you. What were they like? You must want to talk about that, right?

Daphne’s eyes narrowed. I was scared. Is that what you want to hear?

You know that’s not what I mean.

Then what do you want?

Marta let go of Daphne’s hand. I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what’s worrying you. What I’m saying is: I’m here for you.

Like I said, I’m fine.

You’ve been back a month and in all that time you’ve only spoken to me once about what happened, and that was the day after you arrived. Since then, whenever I ask you about it, you always change the subject or say you’re tired or come up with some other lame excuse. Why won’t you talk to me? I’m your friend, remember?

Tears welled up in Daphne’s eyes. What could she say? That she’d already told Marta more than she should have? The gray woman had warned her she’d be putting anyone she told her story to in danger.

Daphne fought back her tears. I can’t.

Marta glared at her. Be like that, then! She whirled around and stalked off.

Daphne watched her go, wanting to call her back. But she bit her lip and said nothing.

As far as her mother, Stephen and everybody else in Feybridge apart from Marta, knew, she’d never left Wydoria, never crossed the Hedge, never met goblins, dwarves, monks, or trolls, never wandered through caves.

And certainly never found the Wightstone.

She had told them she had gone hunting for a remedy for Stephen in the nearby towns and villages, where she had found out that an apothecary in the faraway town of Styran sold a cure for getchen fever. It had taken her two weeks to walk there, she’d said, and by the time she arrived, her purse was empty. The remedy was expensive, and having no money, she’d worked at an inn, waiting on tables, until she’d earned enough to pay for the tiny gourd of medicine and return home with it to cure her brother.

It was awful to lie like that. It wasn’t in her nature to be untruthful and she’d felt like she had to tell someone what had actually happened, or she’d go out of her mind. That was why she’d sworn Marta to secrecy and started telling her about the way the goblins had captured her and forced her to go with them on their travels through the lands outside Wydoria. But then she’d remembered the gray woman’s warnings and cut herself short, quickly ending with a half-baked version of her story that hadn’t included the Wightstone or the dwarves’ mines and secret caves.

Now she regretted more than ever that she’d told her friend even part of the truth because it was splitting them apart.

But what was she supposed to do? She’d put Marta in danger if she told her everything.

She’d seen the hounds herself. There was not an ounce of doubt in her mind they would take Marta away as the gray woman said they would.

Daphne’s forehead wrinkled. Here she was doing what the gray woman told her to, but she didn’t even know who the woman was. Could she really trust her?

Does she know we found the Wightstone? That I had it? I really hope not.

The less the gray woman - or anyone else - knew about it, the better.

Daphne sighed. The Keeper had told her she was the guardian of the stupid thing.

And what had she done with it?

Thrown it over the Hedge a minute after returning home.

She clenched her jaw.

I’m not sorry. I hate it.

For the sake of the Wightstone she’d been taken captive by goblins, forced through one danger after another, nearly eaten by a troll, nearly had her mind wiped, nearly killed more times than anyone should ever have to go through.

It had caused nothing but trouble.

It’s where it deserves. Where nobody can find it.

Dragging her feet, her knuckles white from gripping the strap of her school bag, Daphne walked home along a footpath that ran through an overgrown patch at the side of the village, staring at the ground without seeing it.

It was bad enough to feel so tired all the time, exhausted by dreaming night after night about being chased for miles across nightmare landscapes, without having to deal with Marta getting snippy with her.

Why is she being so difficult?

But in her heart, Daphne knew.

They had been friends forever. Their parents had told them how she and Marta had clicked from the moment they had met as babies.

And now her best friend thought she was keeping things from her.

Well, that was true, but not for the reason Marta thought.

Maybe Marta would stop speaking to her, give her the cold shoulder when their paths crossed - which happened often in a small village like Feybridge.

That would be for the best. If she and Marta weren’t talking, then she wouldn’t have to lie to her friend.

The thought didn’t make her feel any better, and she let out a deep breath through her nose.

What’s the matter?

The voice startled Daphne, and she looked up to see who had spoken. A woman in a long gray cloak, her face hidden in the depths of its hood, stepped out from behind a thicket of saplings alongside the path.

The shock of who stood before her, the hurt from Marta seething inside her, all boiled to the surface.

What are you doing here? I don’t want to speak to you. All you’ve done is make trouble for me.

The gray woman folded her arms. Don’t take that tone with me. I’m on your side.

You don’t act like it!

You’re behaving like this is a game. You don’t have a clue how dangerous me being here is for both of us.

That made Daphne pause. What do you mean?

Like I told you before, the Consistorium is aware of you, and they are looking for you. When you left Wydoria, you disappeared as far as they were concerned. But when you came back, you attracted their attention again. Right now their hounds could be close by and, with both of us having magical abilities, we’re more conspicuous to them together than apart.

Daphne’s mouth turned dry. How do you know all that? Who are you?

I can’t tell you. If the Consistorium finds you, the less you know, the better.

What will they do to me if…?

If they arrest you? It depends. They force most people they take prisoner to use their magic to support the Consistorium’s control over the country. However, those who are too strong for them to control are killed.

Daphne swallowed hard. Is that why Brak died? Did the Consistorium kill her?

This was something that had been bothering her ever since the gray woman had told her that the Consistorium had found the goblin in their secret chamber.

She remembered the details of her duel with Brak like it was yesterday. At the point Brak had been about to hurl a fireball at her, Daphne had reacted without thinking, using her magic instinctively, to push Brak away. The air had rippled, then the goblin and her fireball had disappeared, leaving the Wightstone behind.

The gray woman shook her head. No. Brak was badly burned when they found her. She only lived for a few minutes after that. Long enough to tell them about the glimeris and… well, we’ll get to the rest shortly.

She gazed at Daphne. The only thing which showed through the mist in her hood was the glint in her eyes.

Enough of that, she continued. We don’t have much time. Have you told anyone you’ve been outside Wydoria?

No. Daphne bit her lip. Apart from Marta. Everyone thinks I went to Styran to get a remedy from my brother.

The gray woman grunted. Has anyone been asking lots of questions about that? Sounding like they don’t believe you?

No.

Are you sure? Remember, you can’t trust anyone. Not even your family or closest friends.

I told you already. No.

The gray woman gazed at her silently for a few seconds.

Good. Before I get to the main reason I’m here, I want you to tell me something.

What?

When you returned home, how did you get back into Wydoria? How did you get past the Hedge?

Daphne’s heart thumped. How much could she tell the gray woman?

Nothing. I don’t trust her.

She pressed her lips tightly together and gave her head a shake.

The cloaked woman sighed. I’m not going to be able to help you if you don’t tell me everything. And I mean, everything.

Daphne stared at the ground and said nothing.

The gray woman made an exasperated sound and raised her arm like she was going to hit Daphne. You know I could- She stopped, let her breath out in a hiss, and lowered her arm. All right. I’ll drop that for now. Tell me about the Wightstone.

Oh…. So she does know about it.

Daphne struggled to keep her expression neutral. She forced her mouth to stay in a straight line and didn’t reply.

Don’t give me the silent treatment again! said the gray woman. You must tell me! It’s for your own sake. You see, the Consistorium believe you have the Wightstone because Brak told them so. And you realize what that means, don’t you? Without waiting for Daphne to reply, she continued, "They will find you, take the Wightstone from you, and kill you. Probably your mother and